To Thine Own Self
by Katia-chan
Summary: Everyone should have a truth they can call their own.  Prussia tells Germany a bedtime story, offering him a past and a truth he can hold on to.


To Thine Own Self

By Katia-chan

A/N: Prussia is just too awesome, and Germany is just too cute. Thus, a fic.

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me.

XXX

The kid has been here for nearly a week now, and Prussia is finding, to his surprise, that he enjoys the company. The boy is quiet, and neat whenever he stirs from his bed, and looks at Prussia with a kind of admiration and wonder that he finds incredibly validating and appropriate. All in all, he thinks, an adequate housemate for someone as awesome as himself.

He finds it strange, to know someone is waiting upstairs when he returns from a day of training, tired, but as content as he ever is. The house is silent, as always, but he knows the kid's upstairs in his room, keeping quiet, as usual. What's more surprising is the state of the downstairs. The kitchen is cleaner than it's been in months, and he could almost swear the floors were polished. Or maybe it was just the mop. He never really cared to tell the difference. Everything's dusted, and a broom rests in the corner.

He looks around in some bewilderment, raises an eyebrow, then smiles faintly and heads for the stairs, accepting this new state of things without further thought. A simple gesture of goodwill, and the boy's already been condemned to clean for however long he stays, already, in Prussia's mind, part of the workings of the house.

The kid is upstairs in his room, sitting in bed, a book propped open on his lap. Prussia stands in the doorway for a moment, not announcing his presence, and watches him turn pages, so careful, so precise, with a discipline that warms his heart.

"So I see you were up and about today," he says after a moment, making the boy jump. The book slips from his fingers, closing with a snap, and he looks down at it, blinking, and Prussia can see the confusion in his eyes, as if for a moment, he doesn't know where he is.

"I, yes. I just wanted to do a little tidying up while you were out."

"Looks good." It's a little amusing to watch the ghost of pride rise to those vague eyes. "The place looks much nicer, shows off how awesome I am much better now.." He gives a nod of approval, and this boy Germany looks pleased, and he's glad to see it.

"It's not much, it's just, you've been so nice, taking care of me while I was sick. I know it's been a lot of work…" Prussia waves a hand, dismissive, and perhaps just a little uncomfortable. It's one thing to know that he's great, but it's another thing to hear praise from this waif of a boy, who still looks as if it's an effort for him to be holding a real conversation.

"Bah, it's nothing. A soldier never minds what has to be done. And living with me means that someday you might be almost as awesome. That'll be good, won't it?" Germany nods and smiles, grateful enough that he still takes in all of Prussia's self-adulation with no irritation, and new enough that he still believes every word of it, too.

"Besides. It's good to be proud of a work well done. It'll make you a good soldier someday." He feeds the kid these little scraps, military sayings and maxims, hoping that maybe one day they'll infuse steel into his spine, help him to stand. "But you shouldn't have been up, you still don't look very well."

His tone has gone from general to brother, and he comes into the room, settling comfortably into this role, and sitting on the edge of the bed. Germany slides over a little, making room for him on the narrow mattress.

"I was feeling better," he supplies meekly, though Prussia can see that it's an effort for him to stay sitting up. His thin face looks gaunter, and his eyes move in and out of focus, looking over Prussia's shoulder, moving around the room, as if there's something he can't find.

"I told you though, don't strain yourself. You need to get strong." Germany nods, but his expression is growing distant and distracted.

"I know. I just, I wanted to clean the kitchen, sweep a little…" His words are becoming less clear, and he's mumbling, and his eyes are far away, still restlessly searching the bare walls for something. Prussia watches, and feels a faint prickling of alarm run down his spine.

"West," he says, something in his tone that suggests a naming, a command, a call to report, and he lays his hand on the boy's thin shoulder. "I think you over did it today. Why don't you get some rest, okay? You can try again in a few days. No need to rush it."

It takes a second, but Germany's eyes come back to him, and he nods, laying his head back on the pillow. He's exhausted, and Prussia's relieved, though now he's not quite sure why he was worried in the first place. He flips the blankets up over Germany, and this time he doesn't cover the boy's whole head with them; he's improving. He tucks the blankets in around the smaller form, and leans down to put out the lamp on the bedside table. But he feels a light tugging on his sleeve, and looks over to see Germany staring up at him, his expression sleepy, but his eyes troubled. Prussia looks down, his eyebrow slightly raised. "What is it?"

Germany pauses, considering in a careful way that will quickly grow into habit, before he speaks.

"Will you tell me a story?"

Prussia's hand lingers by the lamp for a second or two; he's tired. But there's a hint of something lonely in that request, and looking at the boy in the bed he knows he wouldn't really consider saying no. So he sits once more, taking his place again on the edge of the mattress, and tries to ignore the unease, a feeling he recognizes from cresting thousands of unknown hills.

"Sure. What sort of story do you want?" Again, the pause to think.

"Will you tell me about how I came to live here? I know I should know, but I can't…maybe it was from being sick, and I don't…" He looks up at Prussia anxiously, his forehead creasing, curiosity and apology all written on his face. He misreads Prussia's still expression, and Prussia can see the flush creeping up into his pale cheeks. "I don't remember. Will you tell me?" The request is quiet, and it's not hard to hear the shame in it. But Prussia hears a trap there, too.

There's a silence that's maybe a second long, but feels like two hundred years, and Prussia misses a beat, but just one. Then he brightens, and grins down at Germany, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement.

"I'm so glad you asked me for that one; it's a great story."

"It is?"

"Oh yes." Prussia rubs his hands together gleefully. "You see, it's a great story because I rescued you." It's Germany's turn to raise an eyebrow, but Prussia doesn't care, he's off and running now. "You see, when you were small, well, smaller than you are now, there was this guy." Prussia's face wrinkles up in disgust, and he makes a face that would have made Germany giggle, if it weren't real, and if it weren't Prussia. "He was really really bad. He had these huge goggling eyes, and this hair that went all over the place, because it couldn't even stand to lay on his stupid head." Prussia fluffs out his own hair for demonstration, widening his eyes in a far too accurate imitation of madness. Germany stares, already transfixed.

"What did he do?" he asks, a bit breathlessly. But Prussia waves a hand, clearly dismissing his interruption, and continues as if he didn't hear him.

"He always dressed stupidly, in these sissy clothes, and sometimes he'd wear snakes around his neck, or this fluffy ruffly crap he must have made out of bits of the people he captured, and he had this hideous face that could make a person die just from looking at it too long, and…" And he's off. He jumps up from the mattress, describing the insane villain, and looking none too composed himself as he details his monstrous deeds, unable to contain the story to mere words.

There are terrifying captures that leave him splayed against the wall, pinned and flailing for his freedom, and confrontations that keep Germany up in the corner of his bed as Prussia leans in, eyes bulging, a poor imitation of an accent that sounds suspiciously like Austria's spewing from his lips.

"He said he would never release you!"

And it goes on. Prussia has a daring standoff with the villain, yelling so loud the walls ring, and echoes bounce through the hall. When the sword fight begins, Germany picks up his pillow, holding it in front of him as Prussia's boots plant on the edge of the mattress and his arms flail as he launches himself into the middle of the room. The lamp nearly pays with its life as one of Prussia's gestures sends it skittering across the table, only to be saved by the quick hand of a breathless Germany, who could do nothing but watch his older brother in fascinated horror as the villain is defeated after hours of fighting, and Prussia launches himself backwards off the bed, flopping to the floor with a thud that sounds painful, but doesn't seem to phase him in the slightest as he writhes, describing the villain's final death agonies in vivid detail. And after emitting the dying gasp, he lays there, head back, eyes closed.

This lasts long enough that Germany, half-terrified that his brother has really hurt himself, is about to climb out of bed to go check on him, when Prussia suddenly bounces to his feet, pouncing on the bed and snatching Germany off of it, holding the wide-eyed boy up in the air.

"And then I got you away from there, and saved you from his horrible villainy, and he didn't ever dare chase you, because he was just too afraid of what I might do to him if he ever tried. So I brought you back here, where you could have the best big brother anyone could ever ask for!" He seems to have forgotten that his villain died in a wonderfully dramatic death scene, but Germany sees no need to correct him, and allows himself to be lifted into the air, even joining in, if a bit hesitantly, with Prussia's cheers.

"What happened to the other people he captured?" He's eager to know more, and the fog has left his eyes as he stares in wonder at Prussia, who flops onto the bed, exhausted and pleased with himself, letting Germany rest against his chest.

"Oh, they all got free too, and went to live in other places." He waves a hand, still enthusiastic, if somewhat less energetic. "But you got the best rescue, because it was me that did it. And now you get to stay here, and I'll teach you all sorts of things, and it'll be the best." He smiles, and roles into a sitting position, plopping Germany back onto the bed as he stands up, still lost in the story. "Aren't you glad?"

He assumes an answer, doesn't wait for the nod he's sure will come, and strolls cheerfully for the door, his movements still grand and exaggerated, beaming.

"Prussia?"

He whirls around to look back, and sees Germany lying in bed, with the covers in complete disarray, and grins sheepishly, returning to the bed and getting them set to rights, tucking them in around Germany's shoulders. Germany stays quiet as he does, allowing Prussia to cocoon him in the blankets, and he doesn't speak until the comforter is snug around him, and his voice is bleary with sleep.

"It must have been so exciting, all those things…I wish I could remember." His eyes are mostly closed, but there is that undercurrent of pain that makes Prussia wish he really did have someone to destroy. Instead he smoothes the covers, and pats Germany's shoulder.

"You don't need to remember," he insists, though his voice is gentler now as he makes a show of checking the blankets for wrinkles. "Just ask. I'll tell it to you any time you want, okay?" A nod, but the night-time ritual has already lulled Germany past the point of speech.

"Night, west," Prussia murmurs, ruffling Germany's hair with a gentle hand before putting out the lamp and padding out of the room in silence, shutting the door softly behind him.

Germany heard that story hundreds of times as he grew. And it never changed. The gestures got wilder, and France once ended up needing stitches because he had the misfortune to walk in during one of the sword fights, but the details were always the same. Prussia was always there, sword in hand, to rescue his little brother from hands Germany now recognizes as Austria's, colored by Prussia's dislike. And it was always a happy ending, with Prussia bringing Germany home safe and sound, to live, whole and happy, with his awesome big brother.

He thinks of that story now, as he watches Austria move around the kitchen. The older man moves through the ritual of making the tea, his hands steady and his expression calm. But Germany has sat in this spot enough times, watched Austria go through these same movements, and he knows something's wrong. The motions are a little less brisk, and there is the faintest uncertainty to every gesture. The cup doesn't exactly shake on its saucer as Austria brings it to the table, but Germany senses that the china would be rattling if he permitted it to do so.

"Sugar?" Austria places both cups down, not a drop spilled, and hardly a ripple. Germany nods, and the sugar bowl plunks down firmly between them, a barrier, snowy mountains to prevent either of them from crossing the table. He takes the spoon and stirs a tiny ration of sugar into his tea, busying his hands as Austria's stare x-rays him across the tablecloth.

"So, what did you want?" He considers small-talk, but the atmosphere is just a little too uncomfortable, and he has never been one to beat around the bush, especially with Austria. They both appreciate bluntness, and he can't stand the calm that pervades the kitchen, the tranquility that hides something violent below its surface.

"I wanted to speak with you about something." Austria stops again, his expression neutral, and Germany would think he had relaxed, if he hadn't spent so much time with him, and if he could not see the calculation in Austria's eyes.

"Then talk," he says, blowing on his tea, releasing as much of his tension as he can with that breath, and eliciting a raised eyebrow from Austria at the childish gesture. It's a conversation he wants, and even if it is with words and money that Austria plays best, Germany isn't an amateur, and he fights better with relaxed attention. A corner of his mouth turns up in half of a smile, trying to shake some of the stiffness in the room. "The way you've been dragging your feet, I thought someone had died."

"Nothing like that," Austria murmurs, though his lips tighten for half a second before his face relaxes a little. "It's simply a delicate matter."

Germany sighs, his patience fading as Austria falls quiet again, meticulously stirring his tea before taking a sip.

"If you're going to sit and look cryptic all afternoon, tell me, so I can go get something done while I wait."

Austria scowls, obviously irritated, and there is something spiteful in his face as he sets down his cup and fixes Germany in another piercing stare.

"Do you remember anything about your childhood?"

It's so abrupt, and it isn't what he's expecting, and Germany's hand freezes on the handle of his teacup. His mouth opens a little, and he stares at austria, bewildered, while a flutter of unease flickers in his stomach, and Austria watches.

"I, well, I lived with Prussia, trained with him. You know that. You came to the house yourself, or did you forget?" His voice is wry, teasing, and perhaps a touch of true mockery is there too, combatting Austria's vindictive tone.

Because he knows that's not what they're talking about.

"I mean before that." Austria's next statement confirms Germany's vague fear, and he blazes up in a defiance of nationalistic pride, steel in his spine and Prussia in his head, tales of conquest playing behind his eyes, flushing his cheeks.

"There was no 'before that,'" he snaps, and it's nearly a sneer. his annoyance is showing, if not his actual anger. "Could you get to your point?"

He expects Austria to snap back, or at the very least, dawn the put-upon expression that seems to be a constant, but he does neither. He simply raises his hands a few inches off the table, and turns them palms-up, a silent apology for starting this on the offensive, and looks incredibly weary.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," he says, very quietly, and folds his hands in front of him, his tea standing mostly untouched.

"What do you mean?" Germany tries to ride the wave of his anger, but Austria's deflated expression turns the irritation to suspicion, and he watches him warily.

"I mean that there are some things I know, about your life before you went to live with your brother. And I think, maybe it's time you knew them too."

He's always suspected this. It's become obvious, as he's grown, that everyone has spent years not talking, and that there's something he doesn't know, something bad. It's important, but he hasn't ever asked, because he knows they don't want to tell. It's the kind of question that makes France change the subject so abruptly Germany's afraid he'll hurt himself, and makes Italy stare when he thinks he's not being watched.

And now Austria is offering to tell him.

He says nothing, for a very long time. He's not scared, not really, and he's not even angry. It's a thrill, running along his spine, an electrical pulse that makes his fingers tingle, and highlights the blanks in his head in sharp relief. He sits perfectly still, his eyes fixed straight ahead, pinned there, in a second that stretches back centuries.

And then Austria, obviously uncomfortable under the weight of Germany's silence and regard, unconsciously smooths a hand over his hair. And Germany is suddenly back in bed, a small frail child, being told a story by his over-excited older brother. He remembers the story perfectly in that moment, can recreate every sword fight, every death shriek that ever lulled him to sleep, and he finds it just as comforting as he did then. It was a constant, the teddybear of a child preordained for military life. He clings to it now, just as he always had, a lifeline to a past he could never really remember.

He'd asked Prussia once, when he was older, if the story was true. He'd expected him to go on at great length about how offended he was that Germany could even think of doubting him, but his older brother had just smiled and shrugged.

"It's your story, West. It's true enough."

And despite the obnoxiously cryptic nature of the reply, he'd been relieved not to have to wade through a condemningly huge pile of protestations to find the sincerity in it. And so he kept it with him, using it to combat the strange memories, and the stranger feelings, and it let him put sword fights and brotherly affection where there had just been empty space.

He's brought back to the present when Austria clears his throat loudly, and he snaps back to find him staring, now looking deeply annoyed.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" Germany doesn't know how long he's been staring ahead, but obviously it's been long enough to turn Austria's mood from somber to irritated, as the other man is glowering at him rather fiercely.

And then it's all Germany can do not to burst into laughter, because Austria's eyes really do look goggly, and he can almost imagine the forbidding mustache, whose invented existence had always been a great source of amusement for both brothers.

"I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head and working to keep laughter from bubbling up into his words. "I was just thinking about something."

Austria scowls, and it makes it that much harder for Germany to keep a straight face. _You'd die just from looking at him…_

"I'm not going to waste my entire day. I came here to tell you something, and I'm trying to do so. So are you going to listen to me? Or are you just going to sit there staring at me like an idiot. Honestly," he mutters peevishly, "sometimes you're as bad as Italy."

Germany is forced to take a sip of tea to hide the smile he can no longer contain, and he drains his cup while waiting for the mirth to subside. And when he has himself under control, he sets the cup aside, and shakes his head.

"No."

"No?" Austria stares, incredulous. Germany shakes his head again, his tone serious once more.

"You don't have to tell me. Prussia already has."

"Prussia?" Austria looks faintly alarmed. It almost sends him into laughter again, but he knows he's committing to something, choosing sides, and that's enough to keep him sober.

"Yes. It was a long time ago," he sees Austria struggling, trying to think of something to say, and he raises a hand to stall him. "Don't. It's alright. There's nothing to say."

And with that, he rises from the table and begins to collect their tea things, briskly clearing the table, while Austria stares, bewildered. He wonders what he might have sacrificed, wonders why he never saw physical evidence of his imprisonment, and wonders how it's possible that he can have, and even usually enjoy, a cup of tea with the man who had apparently tormented his childhood.

But none of these things really matter. Villains can be redeemed, and people change. No one can ever be absolutely certain of anything; everyone has to decide.

And he's chosen his truth.

TTFN


End file.
